


The Road So Far

by queerchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Canon Typical Destiel, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mentions of Trans Dean Winchester, Multi, Personal interpretations of canon episode, Sam Winchester is a petulant bitch, This is a lot but it'll make sense if you read it, season 12
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerchester/pseuds/queerchester
Summary: Dean was silent as he pocketed his phone, taking a careful step towards her, skepticism telling him that no, this couldn't be real. Good things just didn't happen to him. For her to be alive, good as new, her soul and mind intact... it just couldn't be. "I, uh... Are you.. really real?" He asked, voice low, as he walked towards her, treating her as if she was a cornered animal. If the expression on her face was anything to go by, she was just as confused and awestruck as Dean but it seemed obvious that she didn't recognize her son. And who was to blame her?He very quickly realized that no, she didn't recognize him in the slightest. As he reached out to touch her, to make sure that she was physically all there, she grabbed him by the wrist and shoved him to the ground, her foot pinning him down by the nape of his neck as she twisted his arm painfully. He couldn't bite back his surprised sound and groan of pain, gritting his teeth as his face was pressed into the dirt.





	The Road So Far

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't exactly a fanfiction? I felt the need to practice my creative writing for when I went back to school in about three weeks, and decided that writing the start of season twelve sounded perfect. So, it is the episode, but with my own spin on the characters, since I get to decide what they're thinking. Let me know how you guys think about it! Normally, I never post my writings, I leave them to die out since I don't have the motivation, but if I have some people like it, then I'll try my best to continue it! I'm only posting a brief fraction of the work, since it isn't finished, but I want to know if people would enjoy reading this before I write the entire thing!

   Seeing Mary Winchester standing only a few feet away from him was strange, of course. No one could say they saw their mother, who had died in a house fire thirty three years ago, standing alive in front of them looking the same as she looked the night she died, except Dean Winchester. Dean was silent as he pocketed his phone, taking a careful step towards her, skepticism telling him that no, this couldn't be real. Good things just didn't happen to him. For her to be alive, good as new, her soul and mind intact... it just couldn't be. "I, uh... Are you.. really real?" He asked, voice low, as he walked towards her, treating her as if she was a cornered animal. If the expression on her face was anything to go by, she was just as confused and awestruck as Dean but it seemed obvious that she didn't recognize her son. And who was to blame her?

  
He very quickly realized that no, she didn't recognize him in the slightest. As he reached out to touch her, to make sure that she was physically all there, she grabbed him by the wrist and shoved him to the ground, her foot pinning him down by the nape of his neck as she twisted his arm painfully. He couldn't bite back his surprised sound and groan of pain since he was caught off guard, gritting his teeth as his face was pressed into the dirt.

  
"Where am I? Who the hell are you?" She demanded, voice sharp as she dug her heel into the base of his neck, not at all gentle while interrogating him.

  
"I'm- I'm Dean," He forced out, voice pained. "Winchester. I'm your son."

"No, my Dean is four years old." Mary twisted his arm further as she spoke, eliciting another groan and trembling sigh from him.

"I was when you died." Dean's voice was breaking as he spoke, relief washing over him as his mother let go of his arm, inhaling sharply as her memory came back to her, Sam's frightened cries, her fear as she caught that something wasn't right, and the overwhelming pain of being burned. All she'd wanted was to soothe her youngest's distress, not wanting John to bother with it.

Dean forced himself to stand upright, hearing the panic in her breathing, knowing he had quite a bit of explaining to do. "Mom, listen to me. Your name- your name is Mary Sandra Campbell, okay? You were born December fifth, nineteen fifty-four, to Samuel and Deanna Campbell. Your father, he bounced around a lot for, uh, work," He chuckled quietly, shaking his head, "and you ended up in Lawrence, Kansas."

"How do you know all of that?"

"Dad told me," He huffed, before continuing. "March twenty-third, nineteen seventy-two, you walked out of the movie theater - "Slaughterhouse-Five", you loved it, and you bumped into a big Marine and you knocked him flat on his ass. You were embarrassed and he laughed it off, said you could make it up to him with a cup of coffee. So, you went to, uh, Mulroney's and you talked and he was cute and he knew the words to every Zeppelin song, so when he asked for your number, you gave it to him, even though you knew your dad would be pissed. That was the night that- that you met-"

"John Winchester."

"August nineteenth, nineteen seventy-nine, you were married... in Reno. Your idea. A few years later I came along, then Sammy."

"And then I burned," She muttered, breathlessly, both falling silent for a moment as she processed everything. "How long have I been gone?" Mary asked, meeting his eyes, her chest aching to see the tears in Dean's eyes.

"Thirty-three years."

As it all clicked, and she connected the memories of a small, chubby blond boy with the brightest green eyes and the cutest freckles to the man in front of her, she let out the breath she didn't know she was holding, studying over him one more time. Here he was, the little toddler who would beg to be held and cuddled, used to climb up on the counters to steal a bite of freshly baked pies and ate his peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off, all grown up, strong and stoic, all unlike the boy who wanted to get into his mother's makeup and dress in soft, pink clothes, having the worst distaste of anything slimy or dusty for the longest time. She had yet to know how John reacted to it, thinking his soldier of a son would be a soft, prissy type, despite how Mary welcomed it with open arms as long as little Dean was happy and smiling.

She wrapped her arms around Dean to hug him, he seemed lost for a moment. Being as touch starved as he was, he always seemed to hesitate for just a moment when anyone reached out to him in a purely positive way, used to John's rough style of raising him. He never ruffled his hair or patted him on the back, spoke to him fondly or hugged him. He had to grow up all too fast. He was scolded for even calling his father "daddy", because he was a man, and John was to be addressed as "sir"; he was only five when he made the mistake. Even when Bobby or Cass hugged or patted him on the shoulder or back, he seemed shocked and hesitant. Getting used to Mary's gentle touch would take time, but he couldn't push her away. She was his mother, despite her being gone for so long, he loved her more than anything. More than himself.

* * *

 

When Castiel crashed into a Mystery Spot billboard, he was disoriented, disheveled, and frankly pissed. Being forcibly blasted away from the Men Of Letters' Bunker did that to him, especially when it was dark and he had no idea of where he was. Well, he was in a mound of overturned, burned soil, on earth, hopefully in the continental United States, but that was a given. He forced himself to stand after the dust and smoke settled, not even brushing the soil and ashes off of his coat and slacks. Seeing the confusion on the poor passerby's face, he turned to see the scorched board behind him, figuring it had to be quite a sight for a normal human to see an Angel crashing to earth in the dark of night. It didn't excuse the fact that he didn't have time to explain, he needed to get to the Men Of Letters bunker as soon as he could.

"Where am I?" He asked, voice tired and drained, a little irritated at the other man's reply of "earth". "No, how far am I from Lebanon, Kansas?"

"Uh.. Th-Three hours, maybe." The other man stuttered, still awestruck and a little dazed from seeing the man crash through an advertisement board and into the ground after breaking through the stratosphere like a falling star. A falling Angel, really, he wouldn't be too far off. Finding that he was only three hours from Lebanon, he was relieved, still not explaining to the man who and what he was, pressing his fingers to the man's temple, anesthetizing him despite his protests, slipping into the dirty truck as the other fell unconscious, collapsing to the ground and starting his drive to the bunker. He needed to hurry, he didn't know how much time he had, but it was dire if he wanted to protect Sam. 

* * *

 

"How did he die?"

Dean and Mary were sitting on the bench in the park, not too far where he had met with her, the sun rising over the horizon, golden sunlight filtering through the trees. He didn't have time to appreciate it, though, his mind occupied with remembering how John had died, not wanting to ruin how Mary knew him. Dean didn't want to tell her how he was brought up after she died, how he wasn't much of a dad, just a parent. Bobby was the closest damn thing he had to a dad, someone who actually gave a damn about what he did and where he went, how he was and who he talked to.

**Author's Note:**

> If I do continue with this.. Oh, boy, chapters ten, twenty two, and twenty three are going to be fun. And intense. Let's hope I manage the motivation to keep this going.


End file.
